


Two at One Shot

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [17]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Does that make you sad?” she asks, and Grantaire almost laughs again. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Everything makes me sad,” he says</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Two at One Shot

 

Summer hits on the day Cosette comes back, and the day Grantaire realises he is going to die soon.

Okay, so it is not all as melodramatic as that. It is not like he suddenly stops in the middle of walking, or is close to tears, or like Cosette appears in a puff of smoke, blood and screams in her throat, fear in her eyes.

No, she knocks on his door and he opens, and she hugs him and whispers, _‘sorry’_ , and Grantaire thinks, _‘you fucker’_ , but he doesn’t really mean it, so he doesn’t say it either.

And then she comes in, and sits with him in the kitchen filled with sunlight for perhaps the first time in many months, and explains and that’s when Grantaire knows that he is going to die, very soon.

It’s pressure building up, because he is nothing special, yet he had been singled out, and he prides himself in pulling the rose-tinted glasses off when it comes to looking at the world, and he knows that good things don’t last. So he’s going to die.

But it’s easy to get lost in thoughts like that, when he should be focusing on other things. Cosette does, in fact, come back almost five days after the incident with Montparnasse, and he is rather getting ahead of himself.

 

 

*

 

 

**_1832_ **

The café is thick and heavy with fumes and smoke, over-crowded with people, warm people, heated people, people who are smoking and drinking and laughing and talking and _being loud_ , and Grantaire’s head hurts, like an anvil banging until the metal takes shape, and he really just wishes that they would stop.

There are other reasons that he wishes they would _stop,_ but he does not say. This is not the time. Nor the place.

Not that he has ever cared about when the appropriate time and place to say something was, but sometimes a man can have standards. Even a man such as he.

Sometimes a man can be so filled with pain, that if he should speak of it, it may well up and grasp everyone else, take hold and choke them, as it is choking him slowly.

It has been at it for years. He wishes it would hurry up.

He is in a bad mood for no reason. There had been a funeral earlier that day, as there so often was, but it had been no-one of his acquaintance. Yet he had stopped, walking by, because Jehan had stopped, looking curiously at the procession of people dressed in black. There is one woman, dress heavy, her hair the same stark colour, wild curls almost escaping where she’s tucked it up on her head.

“They must feel the warmth. The sun is merciless today,” Jehan had said, and Grantaire had nodded, had said nothing. The sun was always merciless. What was there to say?

“The coffin is small,” his friend had continued. “It is a child.”

 _Of course it is a child_ , Grantaire had thought, is thinking now. _Of course they take a child._

“It is a shame,” Jehan mutters now, sitting beside him in the café, thoughts in apparently the same place as his. “That someone should die so young.”

“His father was one of my teachers,” Bossuet remarks, from the other side of the table, joining the conversation. More of the others are falling quiet: Combeferre has a tired look in his eyes. Grantaire wonders if he knew the boy – he schools the younger ones, sometimes, private lessons, the things les amis confesses to doing when the outsides ask. Perhaps he had known the boy. Perhaps he had been by his side right before he died. “The boy was hardly ten years old.”

“It is a mercy,” Grantaire says, snaps, because his headache is building and all he can see is the coffin, slender and short. Too short. “The boy will be forever young. He will not live to grow hungry, or to end up on the streets. He will be spared from the misfortunes of the elderly.”

He’s closing his eyes, against the glares of the candles and his friend’s stares. He still hears the sound of discontent Joly makes, the awkward rustling of Courfeyrac, and Enjolras rising from the seat in his chair.

“You think it better that the boy has died?” the man asks, voice quiet, challenging. Grantaire smiles, humourlessly. He can imagine Combeferre giving his friend a sharp look. He can see Enjolras ignoring it. His eyes don’t need to be open for this: he always sees.

“You do not?” he asks, mockingly. “The teacher was falling into disgrace, we all know it. His family was falling with him. The mother is from the country, she has no family in the city to speak of, none who can reach out in time and offer a helping hand. What would become of the boy then? He was young. Better to take him before all life left his eyes before his body.”

“If only,” Enjolras says then, his voice filled with something like triumph. “If only someone would stand up and create a better world for a boy such as he: death may not be looked upon as such an ideal state.”

“And then it would be a tragedy, instead of the lesser of two evils, and you would be having me sobbing.”

He opens his eyes in time to see Enjolras roll his. “There is no winning with you, is there?”

“That is the whole point, is it not?” Grantaire grins at him, and he thinks he must look somewhat like an animal, all teeth and wild eyes. He has not looked upon himself in a mirror for days, has slept little and turned in the sheets when he had tried, had painted until his eyes were burning from the exertion, and then burning from the smoke created as he set the works on fire. Flames licking at the grace of Apollo, melting golden curls and golden dreams until nothing was left. He feels cruel in those moments. He feels cruel now.

“Etienne,” Jehan whispers to him, as Enjolras turns away from him to say something to Courfeyrac. “The boy’s name was Etienne.”

That’s when he sees her, sitting in the corner, hair shorn until its shorter than his, eyes sad but attentive, looking at him.

He’ll learn later _(much later),_ that her name is Fantine.

 

 

*

 

 

In hindsight, Grantaire should have probably washed the blood off himself before wandering into the living-room where everyone was, but hey, he did just see someone come back to life, he isn’t exactly in the right mind-set to be practical.

And they’d driven back to the flat in Gabriel’s car, thus avoiding anyone who might have stared at Grantaire the way his friends are currently staring at him. He gets about two seconds of feeling self-conscious, before looking down and realising.

It is mostly on his arms and hands, but a lot has come on his shirt as well, and of course he’d choose today of all days to wear a white shirt. The red is a stark contrast, he notes.

And then a chair is knocked over, and there is a golden and blue blur before his eyes, Enjolras moving a lot faster than Grantaire thought him capable, or maybe it just seems that way because he’s still a bit dizzy after… after everything that just happened.

“I’m okay!” he says, some sense returning to him as Enjolras seizes him by the shoulders and he notes the wild look in the man’s eyes. “It’s not my blood! I’m not hurt!”

There is more shuffling as the others start moving around, but Grantaire only looks at Enjolras, who huffs, relaxing a little, though his shoulders are still tense and his grip doesn’t fall away, fingers digging into Grantaire’s skin through his shirt. It doesn’t hurt: it is an almost pleasant feeling, a connection tethering him to Enjolras, not unwillingly – the other man had reached for him. The other man is not letting go.

“What happened?” Enjolras asks, and there’s such tiredness in his voice. Grantaire doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. It’s his fault, and Enjolras is getting startlingly used to it, of Grantaire always being in danger. The worst part is that it wasn’t always like that. At a different time, it might have been less complicated. They might have been happier.

Well, maybe at a time when they weren’t _them._

“Montparnasse is a zombie,” Grantaire says, and though Bahorel will deny it later, he swears he hears the other man say _‘I knew it!’_

Of course, Montparnasse is not a zombie, but Grantaire lets Gabriel explain that to the others, because he is still covered in blood, and now he is shockingly aware of it, and he needs to get it off. Right now.

“Excuse me,” he manages to say. He doesn’t know how he gets free of Enjolras’ grasp, but maybe the other man let him go as if he’d been burned, as if he no longer wishes to touch Grantaire.

The thought lingers, but it’s pushed to the back of his mind, because Enjolras very determinedly follows him into the bathroom.

“Let me help?” he asks, and still looks a little shaken, because Grantaire is _covered in blood_ , after getting back from the very place that first had him like that _(in this life at least… he wonders how much blood there had been last time. Last time.)_

There’s been a lot of blood lately. On Grantaire. And he knows now that, that… matters to Enjolras. A great deal.

A part of him wants to be alone, but he can’t say no.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, and Enjolras gently closes the door, before reaching out to help him tuck his shirt over his head. It’s sticky and gross, but it’s not as bad as it could have been: not as bad as if the blood had been his own, if there’d been a wound to make it cling. Enjolras’ hands are still careful, as always, and Grantaire wonders what it must be like, being with someone that you constantly have to do this for.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Enjolras seems to understand his meaning, even from the seemingly random statement.

“Don’t be,” he says, running a cloth under the warm water. “It’s not your fault.”

“It keeps happening.”

“You weren’t hurt,” Enjolras says, rather sharply, as if daring Grantaire to have lied to him and hiding some kind of injury somewhere. Not that something like that would be completely outside the realm of possibility. He’s tired of seeing the other man drawn and pale and shaking because of him. He’s tired of hurting Enjolras, simply by being him.

Enjolras turns to him again, moving close, hand cradling the back of his head and turning up his face, kissing his temple. Enjolras is only slightly taller than Grantaire, but right now he feels miniature, a tiny insect held in a much larger palm. Enjolras kisses just beside his eye as well, before moving a bit away, still touching, moving slowly as if not to startle, as if expecting Grantaire to stop him moving further away.

He does.

He hasn’t really been the initiator, much, in this whole mess of a relationship. He’s been shy and doubting and hesitating at every corner… and it must have hurt.

He’s tired of hurting Enjolras.

It’s much easier than he ever imagined, reaching up and grabbing hold of his shirt, pulling him forwards and pushing warm lips together. It’s easy because Enjolras comes completely willingly, eyes sparkling as if happy, excited, anticipating. They fall shut just as he angles his head better, fingers moving through his curls and Grantaire forgets what he was thinking about.

He pulls away when the wet cloth suddenly grows cold: its pressed against his chest and is a startling oddity against the furnace that is Enjolras, even through the man’s layers of clothes. He pulls away, and Enjolras follows for half a second, before he blinks as if waking up, righting himself and looking down at said offending wash-cloth.

“Ah.”

He’s still fucking covered in Montparnasse’s blood: this really is not the time to make out with his boyfriend.

“You still alright?” Enjolras asks then, as if Grantaire’s mood had somehow become worse after kissing Enjolras. He almost wants to laugh. Foolish man. 

“Yes,” Grantaire says. “I just… I’d like it if we could get this blood off me, maybe.”

Enjolras is already working on it, turning around to the sink, though this time Grantaire takes the cloth from him and does it himself. Enjolras’ hand sneaks up to rest on the back of Grantaire’s head again, lightly this time, a touch that’s barely there.

It still feels heavy.

“Tell me what happened?” Enjolras asks then, and Grantaire has to wonder why he hadn’t asked earlier, hadn’t demanded to know, because _anything_ could have happened. He’d even foregone having the story told to stalk Grantaire in here, make sure he was alright. Knowing Enjolras, his curiosity must have been a thing of fire, burning him up all this time. Yet he hadn’t pushed at all, until now, when Grantaire feels like he has gotten some semblance of control back.

So he tells. It’s easy, because for once it isn’t something that pertains directly to him: he doesn’t stumble and fall over his words, something that had become a bad habit for the last few months. He cleans the blood off himself, and talks, voice casual and unfeeling.

That has always been easier for him.

“A militaristic, fanatic group who is convinced we are… what, the anti-christ?” Enjolras has stilled as he says it, looking at Grantaire but not quite seeing him.

“Yep.”

“And Montparnasse called them ‘the Snakes’?”

“Yep.”

He shifts. “And you’re sure he is not lying?”

“No,” Grantaire immediately says. “I am never sure Montparnasse is not lying. Maybe his name isn’t even Montparnasse, and I say that even though I’ve seen his birth-certificate. We just can’t know. But…”

“It seems plausible,” Enjolras continues for him. “From what you’ve told me… and you are sure he really was wounded? It was not a trick?”

“The blood everywhere is sort of testimony to that,” Grantaire wants to snap, but he’s too tired. Too drained. He knows what he saw. “I know what I saw.”

“I’m not saying that,” Enjolras quickly says. “I’m… he could have played some kind of trick. To put us into disarray. To make us focus on something that wasn’t even a real threat.”

“Some trick that was,” he grumbles, and moves to take a step back, but then Enjolras’ hands comes up to frame his face, not quite letting him go.

He could break the hold and walk away right now. Technically, he could.

Enjolras is looking at him, and he can’t.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Grantaire asks. “This means that Javert is alive.”

Enjolras looks completely taken aback, hands falling away from him.

“What…”

“Whatever did it… whoever did it, they did it to Javert as well. When he killed himself, he was brought back. That _was_ him in the Pocket.”

Enjolras stares at him in disbelief, and then takes a deep breath.

“Grantaire… even if that is true, that is no cause for celebration. Javert is merely another wild-card, one that apparently now cannot be killed.”

“You’re not seeing,” Grantaire continues. “You’re not. It wasn’t him and his men that attacked us, it was the Snakes, or Jethro or whatever the hell of a silly name they want, it _wasn’t him_.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s on our side!” Enjolras is yelling, but Grantaire barely hears him.

“There is so much more to this, and you don’t see it, do you? You _won’t_ see it,” he breathes in, heavily. “He is doing exactly as everyone expects him to, and he lets presumptions run wild.”

“Grantaire, you cannot possibly know that.”

“What are you so afraid of?” he interrupts. “I thought this was your moment. You’ve gotten it back, don’t you? Not just causes, but _a_ cause. The cause. You have something to martyr yourself for again, and you get upset when I actually want to help.”

Enjolras looks like he might as well have slapped him.

“You think I’m _happy_ about what’s happening?”

“I don’t think you’re exactly shedding tears over it,” he’s being cruel. He cannot stop himself.

A part of him thinks the words true, anyhow, and he wants to be angry, as much as he is sad, because there is a horror growing in his chest now.

“You just need to build another barricade,” he continues. “We could go back to the Pocket. Somewhere we’re most likely to draw their attention. Lots of furniture there, we could pull it off. Do you have any guns stashed away, just for emergencies?”

“You are being ridiculous,” Enjolras’ voice is cold. “I have no idea what has gotten into you, or why you’re acting like this, so I am going to ask you to stop it.” The last words come out between clenched teeth.

“Maybe that idea is too far-fetched,” Grantaire says, and his voice is nearly a whisper. Enjolras still hears it though, in the quiet of the bathroom. “There are lots of other ways to get killed.”

“I asked you to stop it.”

“You want us to fight something you can’t even see it!” he’s yelling again, and a part of him is aware that the hushed murmurs of the other’s voices have gone quiet: they’re probably able to hear them, even though the thick walls. “You want us to take up arms against a fucking concept, one even more abstract than the one you adhered to last. You want us to bleed and die again, and you should have learned you lesson last time, but you have become foolhardy because of the promise of return now. You think yourself – you think us all – invincible, and Montparnasse coming back so quickly fucking didn’t help, did it?”

“I didn’t want this!” Enjolras’ fist is clenched at his sides. “I didn’t ask to be brought back, none of us did. We’re fighting to make it stop, to make sure they can’t meddle in our lives like this, ever again.”

“You’re so fucking foolish,” he can’t fucking breathe, but he has breath to lash out either way. He always has breath to lash out, it seems. “You think you’re fighting to get back your choice this time around, but the truth is, you never had a choice. You’re a slave to your fucking impulses, as much as you are to Ana-Maria, or to the fucking upperclasses or the deniers of liberty or whatever the hell you thought you were bringing down last time. You’re a victim, because everyone is a victim in some way, and two hundred years of history hasn’t changed human nature, not a single bit. And it hasn’t changed you. You’re jumping for the chance to be gunned down, because deep inside, you know that it’s all for nothing, and this is the best way you think to escape.”

Enjolras stares at him as his words trail off, hanging in the air between them like acid rain, poison gas. In this world, your very breath kills you. Grantaire has always known it: Enjolras has yet to learn his lesson, he thinks. And they’re all _with him_. All of his friends, his _fucking family,_ in this life and the one before. He’s going to have to watch them all die again.

“Is that what you think of me?” Enjolras’ voice is ice, sliding down his back, goosebumps rising. Grantaire almost shivers visibly, involuntarily. He only just manages to control himself.

He doesn’t quite manage not to cringe.

“I asked you,” it rises in a yell now. “Is that what you think of me?”

“I think,” Grantaire says, hurriedly, obeying what seems almost like a command, in spite of himself. He should be keeping his mouth shut. “I think that I’m not the only one who always harbours a death wish.”

That, more than anything else he has said right now, more than anything else he has possibly said ever, seems to strike a blow to Enjolras. The other man’s eyes widen, and then he spins around and walks out, door slamming against the wall behind it. Grantaire flinches again. He’s not quite sure how long he stands there, but when Jehan comes into the bathroom, he’s started shivering.

He takes one look at his friend, his vision going dizzy, and then he’s sitting on the cold tile-floor, head buried in his arms and breathing heavily.

“You two are such fools,” Jehan tells him, and slides down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder.

Grantaire does not respond. The other man is right, after all.

 

 

*

 

 

Grantaire will remember this exchange, on the day that Cosette comes back home to them.

He will remember that he is so wont to let his own fears turn into something ugly that he uses to hurt others. He will remember that he has a problem admitting to his feelings: it is so easy to tell Enjolras that he loves him, that he is the sun and Grantaire but a longing human. They are merely words, pretty and shiny and used in poems all too often, like old artefacts, admired and whispered over, but ultimately useless in the light of day, when a real life has to be returned to.

It is a far different point to admit that he despairs over Enjolras’ cooking, and that he worries the other man might not eat enough. It is not the same as waking up next to him and being annoyed by his curls finding their ways unto his face, into his mouth, and then turning around to complain about them only to find a youthful face relaxed in sleep, chest rising and falling.

There’s a small birthmark on Enjolras collarbone, slightly raised from the skin – Grantaire will trace his fingers over it, in the long hours when Enjolras cannot sleep, mind too busy whirring with speeches and information, with problems and thoughts. The birth-mark is out of place, almost – it looks, in the right light, like dirt almost, like a smear that happened in an unregistered moment. Something that does not belong. It is irrevocably human and it scares Grantaire that he gravitates towards it.

Admitting that is as difficult as admitting that he would rather have all of his friends hide like cowards, than have to watch them all die again.

It has nothing to do with not believing in the cause. It has everything to do with getting drunk in the back of a wine-shop and blissfully sleeping through gun-fire and bodies thudding lifelessly to the ground.

It has everything to do with wild curls that get everywhere, and an errant birthmark, like a drop of ink falling onto pale skin.

He wishes he was better at admitting it. He wishes he could say: _I am afraid_ , and not _you are naïve._

This is how he is a coward. Not by laying a gun aside and running away from the fight.

It is easier to make Enjolras’ hurt, than admit that he is the one sitting here, having wishes of the worst of men.

 _Let the rest of the world burn_ , he wants to tell him, wants to tell all of them. _Just please stay with me._

This is when Grantaire realises he is going to die, because this is how it goes. He is waxing on about bravery and his lack of it, and he is acting the part as well. And when the final bell is about to ring, he’s the one that will stand up and walk in front of a firing-squad. That is simply just how it goes: history repeats itself after all.

The coward is always going to fall, trying to act the hero.

He has yet to be proven wrong about it.

This is how it goes.

 

 

*

 

**_1832_ **

“Grantaire?”

He is too drunk to remember this later.

“You’re that lady from the funeral,” he gets out, and the dark woman smiles as she sits herself down next to him.

“Hello,” she says. Her smile is almost as beautiful as the rest of her. Her hair is streaming like dark clouds over a darker sky, down her back, weaving in and out. He’d been at the harbour once, at night, drinking. The water had seemed dark and endless. She seems endless as well.

“Did you know him?” he asks. His speech is slurred, but he thinks she understands: she seems like it anyway. “The little boy. Did you know him?”

She’s still smiling. “He was an old ally of mine.”

Grantaire snorts. Enjolras had called them _allies_ earlier. _‘Allies to liberty’_ , he’d said. _‘Friends of thoughts to the future.’_

Grantaire had laughed at him.

“He was a little kid,” he mumbles. “How’d he…?”

“He was murdered, unfortunately,” she says, eyes downcast. He hopes the child was not hers. He is pretty sure it was not: she is still smiling. She would not be smiling, then. He doesn’t think.

He doesn’t hope.

_(Grantaire never hopes. He doesn’t dare.)_

“Does that make you sad?” she asks, and Grantaire almost laughs again.

“Everything makes me sad,” he tells the stranger, and she smiles before she leaves.

He has forgotten about it come morning. Just like he forgets about a watch, metal cold on his skin. Just like he forgets about another life.

It is not truly that important: history repeats itself, after all.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

It does not occur to them that Montparnasse may have led their enemies right to their door, before it is too late.

Whether it is an accident or not, is something Grantaire will be taking up with the man later – possibly with Bahorel and Feuilly and Jehan as his backup.

Grantaire is still with Jehan when it happens, Eponine on the sofa texting with vicious frowns thrown in his direction (he ignores them), when the sound of police-sirens pierces the air. Eponine’s head flies up, and Jehan walks over to the window to check what’s going on.

“They’re heading for the park,” Jehan says, and Grantaire doesn’t have to ask him which park he’s talking about: ‘the park’ will always be the place where Jehan stumbled over his feet because a new life presented itself on a silver platter, right before its contents was thrown directly into his face.

It’s like their own little playground of weirdness now.

More sirens are heard, moving in other directions, and Grantaire unwittingly feels heavy stones being dropped to the pit of his stomach: the loud wail of an ambulance follows. Then another.

“The library,” Jehan says, like a sports-commentator, shouting directions the audience can already see.

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre is at the library,” Eponine says, and the words hang in the air for a second, before she’s scrambling out of the sofa and Jehan is stepping back from the window, and even Grantaire moves, of course he is, grabbing his jacket and following his friends out of the door.

They’re possibly still courting trouble, he thinks, running towards the signs of mayhem and danger. This is how people die: when they’re trying to do the very opposite.

_(he doesn’t realise he’s going to die soon. That doesn’t come until later, when Cosette is back, is safe with them)_

_(as safe as ‘with them’ even is)_

_(it is becoming more and more evident how unsafe that actually is)_

Jehan has the keys to Bahorel’s car, still parked out front, and its good because they’ll get there faster, but its bad because Grantaire will have to sit still instead of run down the street, will have to _keep_ still and not fidget or Eponine will punch him in her own worry and discomfort, and when he sits still he fucking _thinks_ and worries.

He wonders if any of the others are with Courfeyrac and Combeferre there. He wonders if they’re alright. He wonders if maybe this is completely unrelated: if it has nothing to do with them. He wonders if he will sigh later, at himself, for worrying so much about something that wasn’t even a real danger. He wonders if he will have a funeral to go to soon.

A funeral or two.

They arrive to complete chaos: it is crowded with cars and people running around, police trying to get people to stand back. There are hushes whispers, rumours floating about, and Grantaire does not bother listening to them, because he has already seen Bahorel, standing tall just a few paces away, jaw set and black hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead: he’s run to get here. His usual running-haunts are well removed from the library. He must have been in a mad dash to get here, running as soon as he saw the direction of the police and the ambulances.

Enjolras is standing next to him, tall and stoic, sunlight filtering through his hair: the wind has caught a hold of it, it’s out of its usual ponytail, but apart from that he does not look ruffled and out of breath. He has been close.

He sees Grantaire when the other man steps forward, and Grantaire hesitates as Enjolras’ eyes widen, surprised to see him there, but it’s not just that, there’s fear and worry flickering in them too. He still doesn’t move, but then Enjolras’ eyes soften, even as his jaw is still set, and he reaches out for him, holding tightly because Grantaire couldn’t stop his feet from moving forwards even if he wanted them to.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, pulling him close.

“I’m fine – what’s happening?”

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras turns his head to look back at the big building before them. Grantaire thinks, with a sudden clarity, that those are Enjolras’ two oldest and best and _first_ friends in there, and the way his hand is tightening in a grip on the back of Grantaire’s shirt is not just a normal reaction to his presence – he wonders if he feels like drowning, like Grantaire so often does, and needs something to tether himself to.

“They’re going to be fine,” he says, and he wants to say _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about earlier, you have fallen for a coward who knows no better, and I am sorry_ , but this isn’t about that, this is not the time or the place to talk about such things, so he keeps his mouth shut and hopes that Enjolras can see it anyway. They will talk later.

Enjolras’ lips quirks. It’s not quite a smile, and his eyes are still heavy with worry.

“That is almost optimistic,” he warns, and Grantaire gives a short laugh. It is a nervous sound, without humour. Enjolras is still clinging to him, the others almost forming a wall around them, warm and familiar bodies pressing into him. There are shouts and journalist taking pictures, and someone mentions a bomb. Grantaire shivers. This is getting out of hand.

“I got a text from Combeferre,” Enjolras mumbles. “But I can’t get a hold of them now. I don’t think their phones are working.”

He’s hoping that’s it, Grantaire thinks. The library is notorious for walls thick enough to suddenly cut off the connection. It could very well be plausible.

The paramedics and police are forming a thick mass of people now, like brightly coloured beetles standing out in a swarm of other insects: there are too many people. Too many people who have no idea what’s going on, and only a few calling out for loved ones, worried about what might happen. The rest are merely there.

Grantaire sees Montparnasse in a flash of dark clothes, and the sun glinting, rays catching the silver-hoop in his ear, and he sees the tall, broad man chasing him as well: he opens his mouth to yell, draw attention, to help or just point it out, defer back to their fearless leader or his equally fearless friends, but that’s when the explosion happens.

Ever since he had first been transported to a different freakin’ dimension, he had had an unsettled feeling about it deep in the pit of his stomach: the wooziness of traveling like that, the disorientation, not just from waking up with a new set of memories, but from waking up in a completely different place as well, lying down instead of standing up. It had been frightening, to a shocking degree.

This is nothing like that. This is loud and violent, and there’s a short burst of heat, like a wall against his face, and people screaming and a car alarm going off.

It is not even that big. It is not a chaos of flames, like in the bad action-flicks he and Eponine and Gavroche have spent way too many hours watching. There’s still flinching and jumping in fright, body automatically turning away from the noise and the heat and the _fucking destruction_ , heart beating too fast.

Enjolras gets his bearings back a second before Grantaire does, ears ringing from the noise, and he lets out a noise of pain: the next second is Grantaire wondering if he has been injured, hit by something thrown through the air.

And then he realises.

He is too late to grab hold of his boyfriend running forward, _towards the fucking fires_ , but luckily Bahorel isn’t, and fright makes anyone strong, makes Enjolras fight to get free, but Bahorel is still stronger. Grantaire doesn’t even register himself moving, but he is beside Enjolras again in the next moment, pushing back his own panic, grabbing hold of Enjolras tightly, arms wound around his waist, his whole body shaking even more than Grantaire’s.

“Enjolras,” he hears himself saying, voice muffled: it’s like its coming from far away, like he’s underwater and someone is yelling at him from back on dry land. Back on solid ground. “Enjolras, it’s alright, Enjolras, please…”

He has no comprehension of what he’s saying, of what he’s doing, of what’s happening, what might have just happened, to his friends _just now_ , while they were _fucking standing here_ , all he knows is that he can’t let Enjolras run towards flames and destruction, and people running in a panic and police forcefully pushing them away, forcing them away, because the library just fucking exploded.

With Combeferre and Courfeyrac inside.

“Enjolras, look at me,” Grantaire says, or possibly someone else says through Grantaire, because his mind seems to have stopped dictating his actions: he has no idea how he manages to sound so calm and collected, but when Enjolras keeps staring at the ruined building, at the masses of people in shock, he lifts up a hand and gently turns Enjolras’ head towards him.

“Look at me,” he pleads, and Enjolras _doesn’t_ , but he doesn’t look at the furnace beside them either, and Jehan is shouting somewhere to his left, and Bahorel’s face has started to crumble, and he would look behind him to look to Eponine, fuck what if Eponine is not okay, but he can faintly hear her just then, and if he lets go of Enjolras now he doesn’t know what will happen, to Enjolras or to him. He’s clinging to the last shreds of composure he has, and if he’s the last one standing then he needs to keep standing for the others.

 _Look at me_ , he wants to say, wants to repeat, because that’s something he should have been brave enough to say in another life, before the report rang and they were gunned down. _Look at me, and not at the face of death. Look at me instead._

He never, ever wants Enjolras looking at that, and he knows he cannot stop it forever, but every second he can delay is worth the effort it takes to try - anything for him: it’s two seconds more before Enjolras’ breath hitches and his eyes go even wider, and Grantaire thinks the shock is leaving Enjolras quicker than its leaving him, is leaving any of the others and he’s realising what has just happened, is realising that fire and rubble and force will have taken something from him yet again and…

It’s Eponine who sees them first, her movement and startled noise alerting Grantaire: he looks up before he looks back at her, and sees two familiar outlines pushing their way through the still thick crowd, ruffled and wearied but appearing unharmed.

“Enjolras,” he says, and fuck, his voice is breaking now, but something in his tone must be enough to warrant attention, because Enjolras’ eyes snaps to him, snaps to attention and then Grantaire’s grip on him loosens as he turns around, and sees that his friends are still alive.

He watches him run forwards, Eponine and Jehan right behind him, and he would follow, only all feelings have left his legs, and he needs to sit down, so that’s what he does, leaning up against a car that provides shade, almost like a shield, pavement hard and cold and uncomfortable, something building in his throat that isn’t quite nausea and isn’t quite a shout, but it’s something ugly and relieved: he can’t believe they were so lucky.

“You alright?” Bahorel asks. Grantaire hadn’t even noticed that he had stayed behind to watch him, and he is suddenly fiercely grateful.

“Fuck,” he says, eyes flickering towards Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who are standing just a few feet away, who are _alive_ and… “Should you be asking _me_ that?”

Bahorel sits down beside him, moving slowly as if afraid he’s going to spook Grantaire. It’s probably just as well. Grantaire doesn’t think he can take any more.

But then Bahorel says, “I need you to be with me on this, okay?” and his throat dries up.

“I’m…”

“We need to get out of here, okay?”

He just nods, because Bahorel is right, and he feels fear claw its way up through his chest again.

“Yes,” he says, and somehow forces himself to stand. They need to get the others away and to relative safety right now, and its moving and _doing something_ , and his body is suddenly thrumming with too much energy.

Enjolras has apparently thought the same, regaining his bearings quickly yet again: he turns around as Grantaire walks up to stand beside him – it is an automatic reaction, from both of them, reaching out and intertwining fingers. Grantaire wonders if his grip is tight enough to hurt Enjolras. The other man doesn’t say a word of complaint. His own feels unyielding, and Grantaire is grateful for it.

“We’re going to go to your place,” he tells Grantaire, orders Grantaire basically, in that special voice he uses for that, and this is a very inappropriate time to be turned on. He’s blaming the shock. And Enjolras. He’s really starting to feel his composure slip, so he lets himself be pulled in a different direction to the others, hardly time to let Combeferre touch his shoulder gently or Courfeyrac grab hold of the lapels of his jacket, a quick and bright, if slightly uneasy, smile on his face.

They’re splitting up, because with a threat like that, it is possibly safer: if they all bunk together in one place, they make too easy a target, and fuck, Grantaire doesn’t even want to think about it, he can’t: he distracts himself by pulling out his phone and texting Eponine relentlessly, making sure she’s okay. He gets several angry smiley-faces back, a quick reassurance and a threat of bodily harm should he die.

He heaves a sigh of relief. At least she’s alright.

He’s starting to feel giddy with relief when he unlocks his front-door: Azelma is with Musichetta, Bossuet and Joly, and he hasn’t been here… fuck, he hasn’t been here since before the Pocket and Naveen and… it is almost surreal, and it puts his odd mood down a little: but there is also comfort in these walls, and he clings to it almost desperately, mind seeking out memories that aren’t all death and pain and fighting an invisible war against invisible foes, and invisible terrorist trying to eradicate them all.

Enjolras however, walks straight past him, into the kitchen, though not before taking Grantaire’s keys and locking the door behind them again: he drops them on the surface of the table before he sits down, hand toying idly with the small, stuffed and worn elephant on the keychain. A gift from Gavroche, when they had been younger. Grantaire tries not to notice the irony in that.

“You okay?” he asks, which is a ridiculous question, and one Enjolras doesn’t bother to answer. He doesn’t even look at Grantaire, only takes up his phone and places it on the table beside the keys, still looking out the window, at the walls, eyes seeing nothing: lost in thought.

Grantaire hovers awkwardly in the doorway for a little while – he feels tired, suddenly, wants to go in and sleep in his own bed for the first time in what feels like years _(years, too many years in his head)_ , but he doesn’t want to leave Enjolras here _(he never wants to leave Enjolras)_ , and there is still too much pent up energy, thrumming underneath his skin: he will never be able to fall asleep.

And Enjolras is listless and quiet in a way that he just isn’t, ever, only his hand moving: it’s as if he has been frozen in time, lost in thoughts he can’t articulate, and Enjolras can articulate anything, everything, but now he seems lost.

So Grantaire walks over, quiet and slowly, and he keeps his voice that way as well as he gently asks the other man to scoot over and make room for him on the small bench they have with the small table in the kitchen: it’s one of the reasons he got the place, that stupid bench: Azelma had loved it.

Enjolras does as he asks, Grantaire sliding in next to him, and his arm comes around the other man’s shoulder in a gesture that feels normal, feels right – Enjolras fits in his arms, and it’s a thrilling prospect, but he’s fucking _shaking_ , and his eyes are glassy, and Grantaire has tucked Enjolras’ head under his chin at the same time that the man moves to do the same, his other hand moving around him as well to grip the back of his shirt tightly, to hold on, as Enjolras cries, _sobs_ into his neck, heaving breaths and muffled sounds that tears at his heart.

He’s no good at comforting, Grantaire thinks: he’s not Jehan, who will understand on some level that no-one else does, and will sit beside you and somehow make you feel less alone simply by existing. He’s not like Bahorel who will threaten to hurt someone, and stand tall and broad and protective. He’s not like Bossuet who’ll kiss your forehead and make small quips that makes you smile even how bad the situation. He’s not like Joly who’ll talk nonsense about anything and everything until you forget you were sad, he’s not like Musichetta or Courfeyrac or Cosette or Combeferre with their natural warmness, an innate trait: he’s not Marius, who hurts so deeply when other people are sad. He’s not even Eponine, who will hand you your poison of your choice and tell you to cheer up, and have so many shadows in her eyes it will hurt even more, until you finally understand, and who has shouted and insulted him more times than he can count, but has always stood beside him, because that’s what family does.

Grantaire is no good at comforting, he thinks, but Enjolras is clinging to him like he’s afraid he’ll be left alone, and he can’t have that, so he strokes his back and whispers nothings into his hair, and tries to remember a time when they were happier, and what he could have done to make Enjolras smile.

“I love you,” he tells him, because for some reason that’s important to Enjolras.

“They’re okay,” he tells him, because they are, they all are – except they’re not, are they, Cosette is still missing, Valjean and Marius are on some kind of possibly suicide mission to get her back, and the rest of them are being threatened from all corners.

Enjolras knows it too, but he’s too busy crying, actually _crying_ , to say it, to yell at Grantaire for lying to him, so he just murmurs another set of _‘I love you’_ and kisses his hair, and then buries his face in it, gripping tighter and waiting this out: maybe that’s all they can really do, he thinks. Wait it out and see what remains after the storm.

It takes a while for Enjolras’ breath to stop being broken sobs, turning into deep breaths and only slight shaking instead. It takes a while, but he comes back, though he remains in the same position, their skin hot where it meets. It should be uncomfortable, angles and bones digging into each other, sitting on a wooden bench and holding on in the same position as they’ve been locked in for over half an hour now, but they still don’t move, and Grantaire almost finds that he doesn’t want to.

He becomes aware that Enjolras is saying something then, is mumbling, lips moving against his skin, something incoherent because his voice is low and hoarse now, after what just happened, but he repeats himself, and Grantaire flinches when he hears – Enjolras pulls away at that, and he almost wants to stop him.

“I don’t have a death wish,” Enjolras says again, and his jaw is clenched hard.

“I know,” Grantaire whispers, suddenly terrified: he wants to reach for the other man, but he dare not. “I… I know…”

“I know what you do,” Enjolras interrupts him, his voice flat. “I know that you say all this shit, and I’ve seen what you do and I know that you cannot believe all of it. But you still say it. And it still hurts.”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, and ends up looking away, ashamed.

“I almost… today, we almost lost…” Enjolras’ voice breaks, before he can regain his composure. “I’m so scared,” he says then. “I’m terrified.”

“Me too,” Grantaire admits, because it is easier that way.

“Do you believe me?” Enjolras asks then, his voice regaining some volume. “Do you think I know what fear is truly like, when I say I do? Or do you think I don’t experience it the same way the rest of you do, because I am some deity free of human emotion?”

Grantaire visibly startles. “I don’t…”

“Because I am sick of it! I am sick of you calling me a martyr and a naïve fool, and praising my name at the same time. You cannot have both. You cannot expect me to _be_ both!”

He tries to fight back the tears in his eyes, and they appear in his voice instead, choking him. “I’m sorry.”

“You accuse me of not seeing you clearly, but sometimes I doubt that you can see me at all,” Enjolras continues. “You think me so much more than I am, and the next moment you get desperate to try and tear me down, _and I am just human,_ Grantaire, I will break, because I love you, and what you say matters, and you should _know this_ because I’ve done the same, I’ve hurt you in ways I will forever regret, and you cannot keep doing this to me!”

“I know, I’m so sorry!”

His face softens slightly. “It’s not just for me. I’m… I have no idea what you get out of being with me, when it’s always two sides of a coin. You either seem to hate me so much you love me, or you love me so much you start to hate me for that as well, and…”

“It’s not you,” it’s Grantaire’s turn to interrupt, as much as he can through the building anguish. “It’s not you, there’s nothing wrong with you, and there’s everything wrong with me and I am so sorry. I am.”

“I can’t do this if…” Enjolras stops himself, searching for words. He looks beautiful, Grantaire thinks, he looks beautiful even with eyes sore from tears and red streaks from the same, painting his face with fear and grief. “I can’t do this if I’m constantly wondering when you’re going to turn around and throw words like that in my face again. Other days like today will come and I… I falter. I falter all the time. And the only reason I keep righting myself up again is because I have all of you to support me. Without my friends I am nothing, and without you I am nothing, and if you don’t believe in me, then I don’t… then I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I say shit like that because I’m scared as well. I keep thinking we’re all going to die, tomorrow at the latest and I don’t… I want to tell you to run away with me. I want to take you all with me, somewhere far away where there’s nothing even remotely like this, where there’s no-one after us and no-one you can get so determined to fight. And I hate myself for wanting that, so I lash out and I am so sorry.”

“Try not to do it again,” Enjolras says, and it’s a request, a plea, and Grantaire almost breaks.

And then Enjolras is the one to break the façade that he is at least somewhat calm about this, if the way he suddenly pulls Grantaire close is any indication, and it seems like they’ve spent the whole evening clinging to each other, but Grantaire is not going to stop now that they’ve started such a good streak.

“I love you,” Enjolras says, _assures_ him and Grantaire laughs, because Enjolras was angry at him, Enjolras just cried in his arms, Enjolras just showed him more vulnerability than he ever has before, and when he told him that he loves him, Grantaire believed him.

“I love you too,” he says, and hopes for a few days of peace – Enjolras needs a few days of peace, and he prays to a god he doesn’t believe in for that, hoping someone hears.

The next few days _are_ very peaceful, considering, the weather awfully nice for days filled with so much worry.

Summer hits on the day Cosette comes back.

 


End file.
